


the shrine of your lies

by tanyart



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Boot Worship, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 15:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18182183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: “Pal,” Drifter says, head tilting towards the upper clasps of Shin’s boot. One finger plays along the bottom seam, teasing. His discerning eyes flick up to Shin before dropping back down. He murmurs, “What do I gotta do to persuade you to take off that helmet of yours?”Spoilers for Season of the Drifter & Thorn quest.





	the shrine of your lies

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to Ari for the quality read and slap chopping down my wordy sentences and commas. You're the true hero here.

 

There’s a light touch at Shin’s helmet, the scrape of nails against one clasp at the side of his head just below his jaw. The audio feedback is loud in his ears, overriding all the other noises in the small back room of the Derelict — the rustle of armor against cloth, the heavy breathing between them.

“Touchy,” Drifter says, trying to snatch his hand back, but Shin’s got an unforgiving grip around his wrist.

“Then don’t touch,” Shin says, tightening his hold in warning. Drifter’s pulse is bounding under his fingers, getting quick enough that Shin decides his threat comes across just right. He releases Drifter’s hand.

Drifter smiles like he isn’t bothered. He’s still in Shin’s space, toe to toe, his robe half open from where Shin had left off before he’d tried for Shin’s helmet. Shin doesn’t feel the least bit threatened, knowing he can put a stop to this at any second, and Drifter’s eyes are dark and hazy. One of them is caught up in the moment, and it isn’t Shin.

(But maybe he can’t say the same for the Renegade. Maybe, for the Renegade, this is all new and unexpected.)

His disapproving silence goes on long enough that Drifter takes it for a challenge. The smart move would be for him to leave off the secret identity business for both their sakes, but Shin guesses Drifter isn’t in the mood for playing smart tonight. The man just wants to _play_.

Drifter doesn’t touch him again, not yet, but he does lower himself to the floor, slow and deliberate enough that it really catches Shin’s attention. An opened robe to a naked chest makes for a nice view, and Drifter knows well enough to lean forward and brace his hands flat against the ground.

“Pal,” Drifter says, head tilting towards the upper clasps of Shin’s boot. One finger plays along the bottom seam, teasing. His discerning eyes flick up to Shin before dropping back down. He murmurs, “What do I gotta do to persuade you to take off that helmet of yours?”

With a look like that it’s not some plot to uncover anything about the Renegade. It’s for the thrill of starting a fight just to lose it. Shin can see right through Drifter’s pretty submission, every mocking gesture of it. It’s a good act though, even if he isn’t much into the actual idea of having someone put their mouth to his boots.

But having the Drifter like this? Shin likes the idea of Drifter deliberately setting himself up for failure. Shin isn’t going to take off the helmet, but the way Drifter’s mouth is parted and hungry, that doesn’t seem to matter, so long as the Renegade is willing to play along.

Shin lifts one leg up to press his boot to Drifter’s shoulder, resting it there for Drifter to turn his head and press his teeth over the hard material.

“You're welcome to try,” he says, and nudges Drifter the rest of the way down.

 

* * *

 

It’s never easy fooling around with Drifter nowadays, not after shattering the Renegade’s persona and especially not after passing on The Last Word. Sure, Shin still knows how to get Drifter’s hands all over him, but it’s always with his hackles up, ready for a fight, acting like his back’s against a wall when more often than not it’s Shin who’s pressed to it.

Drifter seems dead set on forgetting what exactly they did in what arrangements while Shin was playing the Renegade, and if Shin remembers correctly, Drifter had demanded the right to drop to his knees his own fair share of times. Hell, sometimes they even fought for it, way back then.

Drifter isn’t going to get back on his knees himself any time soon, not without help. Shin figures he can get that memory jogged and see where it gets them.

Getting aggressive with Drifter is easy. Knocking Drifter to the ground is even easier. It must piss off Drifter to no end, knowing every time Shin goes down in a brawl-turned-fuck, it’s on his own terms.

Drifter starts to scramble back to his feet, snarling and spitting, but Shin kicks him down again — not _hard_ , not for a Lightbearer, but enough to keep Drifter on his back. Then Shin puts his heel to Drifter’s throat, right over his windpipe. He doesn’t step down, even when both Drifter’s hands grab a hold of his ankle.

Shin waits. Drifter’s still gasping for air with a wild, unthinking look in his eyes. With Drifter’s mouth open, Shin turns his boot inward, brushing it along Drifter’s jaw.

That does the trick. There’s a spark of recognition in Drifter’s eyes before they turn angry. His grip around Shin’s ankle tightens like he means to pull Shin out from under his feet.

“Kinda miss seein’ you enjoy yourself this way,” Shin says before Drifter can try anything. He gives another gentle nudge to Drifter’s cheek with the tip of his boot.

Drifter freezes, color rising to his face along with a flicker of realization — more than just remembering. The offer is out in the open now. Shin wonders if Drifter might figure him out, just exactly how how many times they’ve done this before, but there’s less fear in Drifter’s expression and more bitter frustration. He looks furious enough to stop everything right then and there. Shin feels both cold disappointment and warm relief; Drifter’s only remembering the Renegade.

But Drifter never did like getting called out, in any of his incarnations. His breath stutters out, fogging up the shine of Shin’s boot. He growls, “Got a real high opinion of yourself, huh.”

Shin keeps his voice even. “How high an opinion do I need when you’re so low to the ground?”

He increases the pressure to emphasize his point, enough that Drifter has to prop his hands under Shin’s boot, shaking from the weight. Maybe from something else too; Shin doesn’t miss the way Drifter’s eyes darken, going a touch glazed, just like all those times before.

Drifter stares at him, throat working as he tries to swallow. The tip of Shin’s boot pulls at his upper lip, revealing bared teeth and dripping saliva. Drifter’s just about panting now, the wet gurgle with each breath giving away all Shin needs to know.

“Fuck you,” Drifter spits, but his hands drop, eyes falling shut, and Shin knows he’s got Drifter dead to rights.

 

* * *

 

It used to be like this —

Hope waits by Vale’s feet, legs folded beneath him and hands braced on the floor. He’s expectant, patient, waiting for the command. Vale takes a moment to deliberate before leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t move forward — why would he? It’s up to Hope to make the effort. All Vale has to do is grant permission. He does with a sardonic tip of his head.

To his credit Hope doesn’t flinch away, which goes to show how many times he must’ve taken a knee in front of someone, mouth to their ankle, crawling his way into their good graces. It certainly works on Vale. Hope makes a pretty picture of worship, head bent low and biting along the stitching of Vale’s boot in reverence.

All lies, of course. But Vale has lies of his own.

Both of them are untouchable, in one way or the other. Vale hitches his boot up to rest on his other knee and watches as Hope chases after it, a string of his own spit breaking off. Unexpected discontentment curls in the pit of Vale’s stomach, even as the heat simmers inside it. He has Hope at his feet, but Vale can't blame the whispers for wanting to pull him up for something more.

This is only a game. And Vale is setting himself up to lose.

He wants to touch, wants more than a play of groveling. It doesn’t help that he thinks Hope might want the same. A breath leaves his lungs too fast, too loud, echoing inside his helmet. Hope flashes him a knowing look, too sharp and cutting, and his hands start to brush over Vale’s upper thigh, daring light touches at the seams.

His mouth leaves Vale’s boot. He sits up, angling himself closer into Vale’s lap, lips parted over the tent of Vale’s pants. His gaze flickers again to Vale, eyes crinkling.

Something about the smug look sparks a furious fire in him. Vale lifts his leg, motion smooth to hide his thudding pulse, and places the arch of his boot at the base of Hope’s shoulder. He steps down in warning. Too close. _Get back down_.

He slots his other leg between Hope’s open thighs. The sole of his boot presses against his crotch.

Hope chokes, head tilting up, too far up to be demure. Color rushes to his face, hips bucking under the weight. Vale eases off, putting his foot back over his knee and settling into his chair. Hope catches on quick, head ducking back down to no doubt hide his wry expression. His hands drop to the floor, tongue back to the boot resting on Vale’s knee.

“Please,” Hope says, clumsy when he mumbles for forgiveness, and surprises Vale with a filthy kiss at the tip of his boot. His breath stutters as Vale rewards him by rubbing a slow circle between his legs. The next words are quiet, breathy gasps, “Yes, _yes_ —”

Vale’s boot is all wet with spit. He bends his ankle just to see Hope move with it, smearing the slick messily over Hope’s cheek. Putting more pressure on Hope’s crotch makes Hope rub himself on Vale’s leg, desperate little moans making Vale dizzy with thoughts of mercy, the temptation to throw himself on the floor along with Hope.

But if he did, if he allowed himself to fling off his helmet to meet Hope’s lips with his own — Vale doesn’t shut his eyes, doesn’t let himself even imagine. He stares down at Hope, feeling the way he ruts against his leg, hearing Hope’s panting grow harsh, and it has to be enough, it has to be all he needs.

Hope shudders, biting into the hard leather of Vale’s boot with a low groan. His teeth sink down with neither gentleness nor reverence, but his eyes are bright with gratification.

It’s the closest thing to devotion Vale will ever get from him.

 


End file.
